


something just like this

by samedifference61



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 4x09, M/M, Pirate Feels, Stripping, cliff!porn, my silver pov would be so much better with actual backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 05:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10455759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samedifference61/pseuds/samedifference61
Summary: Making James Flint purposefully wait for him? Now that’s something that sparks Silver’s curiosity.A little 4x09 flashback cliff!porn piece that doesn't actually have any porn, just some sword fighting, stripping, banter, and kissing really.





	

The blades strike so close, the sinister echo of steel rattles between his ears. Silver’s out of breath as he staggers back on the uneven sand and island brush underfoot.

When he looks up, Flint’s smile is infuriating.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely,” Flint replies, using his sleeve to wipe at the sweat gathering across his face. He shrugs off his heavy jacket and lets it fall to the ground.

Silver sits on a flat boulder behind him and lays the crutch at his foot. It’s fucking hot up here on the cliff’s edge, even with the tidal breeze from the sea. Any battle they hope to win in Nassau better allow him time to shed the layers of clothing unnecessary for survival, because he swears everything he’s wearing makes it five hundred times more difficult to concentrate on sword technique and the placement of foot and crutch.

“Again,” Flint beckons, caging his body in a defensive stance with his left hand behind his back. There’s an overwhelming intensity behind his eyes, but Silver does not shy away from it. He’ll admit that lately he’s at his best when all of Flint’s attention is focused on him.

“If you do not give me rest, I fear my own exhaustion will lead to your sword slitting my throat, accidentally or otherwise,” Silver bargains.

The adrenaline rush radiates from Flint in waves. He’s poised on the edge, ready for what’s coming, for what Silver can give and take from him as he pleases. Flint’s so eager in this moment, and Silver decides that he can absolutely work that angle to his advantage.

Making James Flint purposefully wait for him? Now that’s something that sparks Silver’s curiosity.

“You aren’t pushing yourself nearly enough,” Flint says. “You may be able to draw me into conversation and gain rest in the process, but the Redcoats will have no tolerance for words over action.”  

Taking his time, Silver smooths his hands over his damp hair, unties and reties the leather cord at the base of his skull, and keeps his eyes on Flint as he does it.

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing you’re no longer fighting for the Royal Navy,” Silver counters. He stands, crutch firmly under his arm before he unbuckles the wide leather belt around his middle and lets it fall to the sand. Flint’s sword lowers until it’s horizontal. Silver swallows, and feels his pulse quicken as he pulls the shirt tail from his trousers and begins unbuttoning it down the middle.

He’s entirely uncertain how Flint may react to this plan of his.

Flint’s arrogant laughter is not what he expected. Flint says, “If you mean to distract me—”

“My skin feels like it’s slowly burning away the sinew and bone beneath. It’s _fucking hot is all_ ,” but Silver cannot hold back a smirk even as his words misdirect from their true intention, an intention correctly identified by Flint already.

“Pick up your sword, you narcissistic shit,” Flint accuses.

Silver does, but not before he sheds his shirt completely, leaving his top half bare, smiling all the while. He may also take his time stretching his shirt over his shoulders, slowing the ripple of muscles beneath sweat and sun soaked skin too.

“I'm hurt you do not believe my intentions are genuine,” Silver counters, advancing on Flint as he speaks.

Flint deflects Silver’s sword easily, but pivots and retreats anyway, clearly letting Silver lead him into the next series. Silver leads him down the narrow path towards the sea’s edge. As they near the beach, he stands above Flint on the cliff’s pass, and uses his height to his advantage to lift his crutch and lunge it towards Flint’s face with all his strength. He’s sure Flint will deflect it until he doesn’t. It connects with Flint’s jaw, and the crack of bone and the grunt of pain that follows leaves Silver wide eyed.

Flint falls to one knee. He bares his teeth, tinted red, and spits blood into the sand.

“ _Fuck_ , I didn’t mean—” but Silver doesn’t get to finish his apology because Flint is advancing toward him again, the fury and adrenaline returning to his expression.

“Now we’re getting somewhere interesting,” Flint grits out, a hunter advancing on his prey.

“Wait,” Silver tries, but Flint is already upon him, and there’s no breath left for words.

This feels more like a true fight than they have ever engaged in previously. Flint’s movements are unpredictable and shorted where they should be elongated, ridged where they should be fluid. He’s taking the rules of engagement and breaking them, one by one, and Silver’s left breathless in his wake, unable to keep up when faced with strategy too advanced for his current level of skill.

Silver loses grip of his sword in the confusion, and when it is tossed away, Flint elbows him hard in the side of the head, forcing Silver to the ground with a cry of pain.

The wind is knocked from his lungs and he struggles to breathe, vision blackening around the edges until he’s sure he’ll pass out, but by some small miracle, he manages to stay coherent, though the nausea stays with him for a few agonizing minutes more. He can see Flint removing his sand-heavy boots a few meters away, eyeing him sympathetically behind heavy breaths, but not offering any help.

When he can speak again, Silver says, “ _Jesus Christ._ Is this part of the lesson, too? See what kind of beating will make me pass out the fastest?”

“Apparently, it takes more than a blow to the head,” Flint affirms.

Flint stands over him and offers a hand, and Silver takes him by the forearm, but instead of letting Flint pull him up, he pulls down with all his strength, until Flint trips forward, grunting with the impact. Silver rolls them until he has Flint below him, pinned beneath his knees and his weight, and he’s not at all satisfied with how quickly Flint gives in to him.

“And now?” Silver asks, chest heaving with the effort, and hair falling loose around his shoulders.

He’s curious about this side of it. What if he lost his sword in a real fight and had to defeat a man with only the use of his hands? Silver stretches out over Flint and looks down at the grit covering his arms. He pushes his fingers into the wet sand on either side of Flint’s head. It gives way easily, leaving claw marks behind. Could he do it? What kind of strength does it take to follow through with such a choice? Does _Flint_ think he could do it?

“I think our lesson is concluded for the day,” Flint says, words far softer than Silver could have imagined. He sighs audibly, and looks up at the blue, cloudless sky, avoiding Silver’s eyes.

It’s so fucking strange, the ebb and flow of Flint’s mood lately. There are moments of staggering connection between them, and moments where Silver is sure Flint would sooner kill him than spend another second in his presence. This moment is clearly flowing into the latter, and Silver doesn’t understand where they went wrong.

The cut on Flint’s lip is still bleeding, bright red against the flush of his lips, and Silver swipes at it with his thumb, still curious about what happens next. Flint slowly licks his lip but turns his head away.

“Be very cautious, Mr. Silver,” he warns, but his words are weary, not forceful.

Silver brushes the sand from Flint’s cheek and runs his thumb over Flint’s lip once more, barely touching him, because, no, beyond pushing Flint into another fight, there’s something else he needs to understand here.

Flint grips his wrist so hard Silver can feel the bones protest against the pressure. Flint says, “I will not accept this as some kind of innocent exploration of your own sense of—”

“Quiet, _just._ I’m trying to understand,” because he’s not blind, after all. He knows Flint is at times fond of him beyond friendship, but he never thought. _Oh._

“Oh,” Silver says out loud.

“Get up,” Flint warns, attempting to twist free of Silver’s grasp. He sits up and pushes until Silver edges backwards on his legs, putting a small measure of distance between them.

“No, this is important,” Silver says. He holds Flint at his biceps. “Look at me.”

Flint huffs in protest, teeth clinched together, like he can hardly bare it, but does what Silver asks of him.

“You asked me about motives yesterday and you spoke of yours tying to your past. I think— I understand why it was difficult for me to articulate what motivates me.” Flint is listening now, curious but still guarded. The light is fading from the sky behind him, and the tide is receding, waves crashing gently to their right. “Because none of it is tied to my past. It’s tied to the blade not the wrist, to the present. You believe I am to lead this?”

“Yes,” Flint whispers and there’s no hesitation in his voice. Silver’s chest fills with the warmth of confidence at Flint’s steady conviction. He likes that feeling, and he’s found that it’s something Flint’s always willing to give him.

“Your belief in me, Billy’s, the crew’s, Madi’s. If all of you believe _I_ am to lead us into this, then I will _do it_.”

He leans in close, pressing their cheeks together, and Flint buries his face in Silver’s neck. The act is so blatant in affection, whether Flint believes Silver can recognize its transparency or not, that he nearly forgets what he was going to say, nearly.

“I’ll do it for you,” Silver whispers. “That’s all the motivation I need.”

“It only works if you want it for yourself, too,” Flint says, and he pulls away to give Silver that half lidded look of adoration that Silver can’t seem to get enough of lately. _And_ _fuck it all,_ Silver thinks to himself, because they’ve _fucking_ danced around this next part for long enough that he’s sure Flint would suppress every thought that goes beyond friendship until the end of time, that is, if Silver _lets him_.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Silver says, before biting hard at Flint’s lip, tasting the harsh metallic taste of blood.

“Fuck me?” Flint echoes, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, _fuck you_.”

Flint catches Silver by the back of the neck before he can move any further away.

And _fine_ , they’ll do this here. Silver is ready to have it all out in the open, anyway, so he fists Flint’s wet shirt, to keep him in place, just as Flint keeps hold of his neck.

“You’re a fool if you think any of this has been forced on me. Even Billy’s idea for Long John Silver was born of Dufresne’s death, a death that is my sole responsibility. I am fully invested in whatever comes next, and if this is the way forward, then _fucking show me how_.”

Flint looks at him for a long moment, slowly dragging his thumb across the ridge of Silver’s jaw, through his beard, like he’s trying to parse out any ulterior motives that just aren’t there. Silver gets it, he does. Flint’s lost enough in his life that trust doesn’t come easily, especially from someone that isn’t always truthful, but Silver isn’t sure how else to reassure him, what else there is left to do aside from pressing their mouths together and hoping for a favorable reaction, so he does that before Flint can talk himself out of it, because Silver wants it, _wants it all_ as much as he’s ever allowed himself to want anything before, and _god damn it_ , Flint will accept what he’s giving at face value.

When they kiss, Flint tastes of longing and desire and the complexity of emotions he never succeeds in hiding from Silver.

They kiss for a while, hands pressed to each other faces until Silver is sure Flint will crawl inside of him and they will fuse together, existing as one forever after. Flint is gently rocking against him, and the hardness pressing up against Silver’s thigh is too tempting to not touch. James Flint is hard for him, and that’s so _fucking intoxicating_ that Silver can feel himself grow hard in turn.

Flint slots his fingers into the notches of Silver’s ribcage, and the scratch of sand makes him curl into it, rolling forward on Flint’s legs.

“You would let me?” and Silver’s not even sure what his questions means, but Flint looks at him like he understands anyway.

“If you meant it,” Flint replies, and grunts when Silver grips him hard between the thighs, curious fingers hold him in a way he hopes is pleasurable.

“I mean it,” Silver says, and he tries his best to show Flint how true it is.


End file.
